'I believe the name 'Hop-Frog' was not that given to the dwarf by his sponsors at baptism, but it was conferred upon him, by general consent of the several ministers, on account of his inability to walk as other men do. In fact, Hop-Frog could only get along by a sort of interjectional gait -- something between a leap and a wriggle -- a movement that afforded illimitable amusement, and of course consolation, to the king, for (notwithstanding the protuberance of his stomach and a constitutional swelling of the head) the king, by his whole court, was accounted a capital figure.'
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Stendhal glanced down on the forest scenery through the helicopter window, the previous day's events replaying in his head. His countenance was one of great fascination and delight. He spun around, his eyes glittering, and addressed his associate, Pikes who was manning the dashboard.
"Pikes, I have not yet experienced, in the course of my existence, such ecstasy and elation as I have felt in the past 24 hours." Pikes nodded.
"Aye, Mr. Stendhal. The Council will receive cold retribution for their treatment of anything that doesn't suit their 'refined' tastes. My hands quiver with excitement at the thought of creating the device that will soak the Institution's halls with their blood."
"Ah, Pikes, passionate as ever I see." Stendhal reflected for a moment on that particular subject. The Council of Moral Climates was an organization who claimed to be censoring the 'falsities' of the world and changing them to 'pure' media. The Council also served as the center of his aggression and anger as they are the persons responsible for the Great Fire thirty years ago.
"Those pompous fools sit on their thrones and proclaim that they are 'censoring' the evil of the world and creating a generation of 'Clean-Minded' people by destroying fine works of horror and misery. However, I happen to know that the Council is nothing more than a group of anti-literature Nazis, set against the greatest works of art ever created with a pen."
"You are correct as always, Mr. Stendhal. Inspiring! However, infuriating as it may be, what more can we do about it? Any more performances like yesterday's and the Council will have our faces on wanted posters for 'contamination' of the public."
"Ah, Pikes, I thought you'd have never have asked. I have already applied all of my cerebral facilities and come up with a plan that will eliminate the Council for good while keeping our lives out of danger."
Pikes set the helicopter in autopilot and leaned in, interested in the prospect of such an efficient elimination. "Really sir? Please, enlighten me. My interest is piqued."
Stendhal strutted over to a chair and leaned back, grinning devilishly.
"It is quite simple really. As I said before, the Council is phobic of anything that is even loosely related to legends and myths. Keeping that in mind, I say we conjure up one of the most mythological and fictitious species humanity have ever pondered. My good man, I am suggesting that we display to the Council of Climates, in public view, a Martian."
Pikes's eyes sparkled with delight and he clapped his hands in admiration.
"How precise and efficient as always," he said in admiration. "I will get started on the production right away."
Stendhal shook his head. "No, Pikes. I am not referring to one of the manifestations of your creative genius. I am talking about a real inhabitant of Mars before man arrived."
Pikes nearly fell off of his recliner. Pikes turned around, his face somewhat puzzled. "But, Stendhal, surely you jest? A real live breathing Martian? There hasn't been a sighting for years."
